


For life, yeah?

by RedStarFiction



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Bipolar Ian, Cute Yevgeny, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Gallavich Gift Exchange, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Protective Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:31:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedStarFiction/pseuds/RedStarFiction
Summary: Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017 for @frank-iero-owns-my-ass!The prompt was:  Mickey coaxing Ian through a particularly depressive week, it’s lasted longer than usual and Ian won’t come around. Ian is secretly afraid Mickey will leave him if he keeps up his manic episodes, but he feels so helpless, as does Mickey in trying to help him. Mickey pov (general guidelines, feel free to change it, im so easy to please)So here is my interpretation and I really hope you like it :)Also a huge thank you to @gallavichthings for organising this whole thing. xx





	For life, yeah?

Mickey hisses through his teeth as he runs his bloody knuckles under the stream of cold water.

“Mother fucker!”

He grits out through pursed lips and flexes his hand experimentally. It’s going to bruise like a bitch but he doesn’t think anything is broken. Thank fuck for that! Ian is going to be pissed enough without adding a hospital bill. He keeps his hand submerged for a couple more minutes and then carefully wraps it in a mostly clean towel and returns to the scene of the crime.

Yev turns away from the carnage as his Papa approaches and looks up at Mickey with large, sympathetic eyes, sucking in his lower lip.

“Ah shit.”

Mickey groans, surveying the damage for himself.

“Shit, Papa.”

Yev agrees sombrely. Mickey nods and mimics the little boy’s lip movement. Though now is not the moment for taking a photo, if anyone was there to do so, it would serve as an excellent paternity test if there was any doubt left as to who fathered Yevgeny. They are two frowning, blue-eyed peas in a South Side pod.

“Daddy is gonna be super mad.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey nods grimly already thinking about the sheer level of jutting chin he’s going to have to deal with for this one. He squats down beside his five year old and Yev wordlessly hands him the broken controller. Mickey runs his thumb over the cracked plastic and floppy toggle sticks. It wasn’t Ian’s remote thank God, but it’s still going to be an expense they could do without. The re-run of the K.O that caused the meltdown is still playing on the TV.

“Your hand okay?”

Yev asks, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to see the rather impressive swell of bloody knuckles his Papa is sporting.

“Hurts a bit.”

Mickey admits and glances up at the fist shaped hole in the wall. From this angle it looks even worse.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Yev agrees again and puts a comforting arm around his Papa’s shoulders. Mickey gives him a little lopsided smile and stands up, lifting Yevgeny with him and settling the boy on his hip. Yev raises his eyebrows at his Papa and flicks his gaze to the broken plasterwork.

“What are we gonna tell Daddy?”

“That I lost my shit and busted the wall I guess.”

Mickey shrugs.

“Are you gonna get a spanking?”

“Maybe, little man. Maybe.”

Mickey laughs despite himself and Yev bites his lip in consternation. He has never been spanked but has been threatened with it a couple of times and he understands the general principle of it well enough to know it is to be avoided at all costs. He looks back at the wall over Papa’s shoulder as Mickey carries him out of the room.

“We could fix it?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna have to fix it. But, hey, listen, you get that what I just did was really bad, right? We ain’t supposed to throw toys.”

“Or stamp on them.”

“Right.”

“Or punch things.”

“No …”

Mickey grimaces as Yev continues to tick things off on his fingers

“Or say cuss words really loud.”

“Okay…”

“Or …”

“I think you got it, little man. Good job!”

Mickey kisses his son’s forehead and stands him down in the kitchen, handing the kid a chocolate chip cookie. Yev isn’t supposed to have sugary snacks before lunch but when Mickey acts out in front of him, which doesn’t happen as often as most would expect, but more often than he likes to admit, he always feels like he needs to spoil him a little to make up for it. It’s not great for a five year old to learn new and improved tantrum techniques from his father.

“Want a bite, Papa?”

“Nah, you enjoy it, man.”

Yev smiles happily and stuffs the rest of the sticky treat into his mouth, chewing with a noisy enthusiasm, broken toys and punched walls all but forgotten.

*

Mickey is just pondering how best to patch up the wall without Ian freaking out too much when the front door slams open and his boyfriend crashes in along with a flurry of snow and cold wind, face drawn and angry.

“Daddy!”

Yev cries excitedly, immediately abandoning Mickey in favour of charging toward Ian.

“Hi Yev.”

Ian picks his son up obligingly but Mickey’s ears instantly prick at the sound of Ian’s voice. It is flat, devoid of its usual flair and light.

“Hey, you’re home early.”

Mickey ventures cautiously as Ian walks over to him, his uniform is crumpled, messy, it looks like Ian has been hunched over rather than his normal straight-backed elegance.

“Not feeling good.”

Ian looks at Mickey, glances at the hole in the wall and closes his eyes, turning his face to bury his nose in Yev’s hair.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I … ah …”

“Papa punched it.”

Yev offers. 

Ian’s eyes instantly harden.

“Jesus Christ, Mickey. What the Hell is wrong with you?”

The frustrated disappointment in Ian’s weary voice renders Mickey immediately mute and he studies his bruised knuckles intently. Ian kisses Yev’s temple and hands him over to Mickey, actively trying to avoid touching him at all.

“I need to lie down. Just leave this shit alone until I get up. I don’t want your clumsy fuckin’ patch up disturbing me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the harsh words and harsher tone but the bags under Ian’s eyes silence any retort he might try to make.

“And put the damn heating on. You spend enough on cigarettes; you can spend some money on keeping our kid warm.”

Ian gestures around the already warm house and glowers at Mickey who bites his tongue with an effort and nods.

“I’ll bring you in some lunch, okay?”

“Whatever.”

Ian stomps past and closes the bedroom door loudly behind him and Mickey lets out the breath he has been holding. Yev looks up at his father uncertainly

“Is Daddy okay?”

“Yeah, just tired and mad at me for the hole in the wall.”

Mickey smiles at Yev and then glances up at the closed door, a frown creasing his own brow. It has been nearly a year since Ian’s last depressive episode, and Mickey supposes it had to happen again at some point.

*

The next morning Mickey wakes up and rolls over to face the Ian shaped bundle of blankets that is beside him. He knows that Ian is awake from the pattern of his breathing and Mickey tentatively rests his hand on the outline of one strong arm.

“Good morning.”

No response.

“How you feelin’?”

Mickey inches the covers back slightly to try and get a look at his boyfriend but Ian shivers against Mickey’s palm as it is laid on his shoulder and pulls away silently.

Shit.

Mickey sits up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away the grains of sleep gathered in the corners.

He rolls himself out of bed and grabs his dark blue dressing gown from the back of the door. The thick, coarse towelling is a reassuring glint of normality and makes him feel a little better as his bare feet adjust to the cold kitchen floor.

He flips open the pill dispenser lid and empties the four pills Ian takes every morning into his palm, poking at each of them in turn with his forefinger, scowling. He wishes he knew which one of the little round fuckers had flunked out on Ian this time. He’d crush it, toss it down the toilet then take a shit on the pieces.

However, Mickey doesn’t know and so he carries all four back to Ian with a glass of water and focusses his attention on the task at hand.

“Hey man. Time to take your pills.”

Ian’s voice is muffled but clear enough for Mickey to make out:

“Go away.”

“I will in a minute, I promise. Just take these and I can go.”

Mickey crouches besides him and gently tugs the covers back from Ian’s face. He should have had Yevgeny stay the night. Ian is in pretty bad shape but not so bad as Mickey had feared and he almost always takes the pills when Yev offers them to him. As long as Ian is not at the very bottom of the pit of despair, he is still a pushover for the kid.

“Please, Mick …”

“C’mon. You know I gotta see you do it.”

Mickey’s thighs are beginning to cramp from the squat and he shifts awkwardly, trying to be patient. Ian eventually uncurls a hand and Mickey slips the pills into it and then holds the back of Ian’s head, helping him sip water to get them down.

“Alright. I’m gonna make you a sandwich and leave it on the side here. You can eat it if you want to.”

Mickey stands, pressing a kiss to Ian’s cheek before drawing the covers back over his shoulder. Ian tugs them the rest of the way over his head and Mickey nods to himself. Fine.

He goes into the bathroom and whilst he releases the torrent of his morning piss, half-heartedly aiming at a stain on the back of the bowl, he tries to stem the rising panic bubbling in his chest, reciting the familiar mantras to himself.

They’ve done this before.

One of the pills is out of whack and needs to be regulated.

Ian will spend a day or two like this and then he’ll manages to move, they’ll go to the clinic and sort it.

They’ll be okay.

Ian isn’t even as bad as he sometimes gets, he can still call Mickey ‘Mick’ and he took the pills without crying, lashing out or just refusing until Mickey had to force him.

It’s all okay.

It is all going to be okay.

He texts Fiona and receives a reply that she’ll be over soon. Gallagher’s love a fuckin’ drama, he thinks wryly and then chides himself for being an asshole. The last couple of years the Gallagher clan have been pretty good about accepting Mickey and Fiona is always ready to help out when Ian hits a rough patch.

Mickey makes Ian a baloney sandwich, leaves it on the side with a glass of water, and goes out for his morning smoke.

He stands on the porch in his robe, a battered pair of tartan slippers on his bare feet, faded blue shorts and a tank top, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. A couple of kids ride by on bikes, leaving tracks in the fresh snow, and one of them flips Mickey off. He returns the gesture and they pedal away, shrieking with delighted laughter. They’ll probably tell their friends that they flipped off Mickey Milkovich and got away with it. Mickey doesn’t care. His is one of the few houses that has never had a juvenile break in, that tells him all he needs to know about his status in the community, thank you very fuckin’ much.

The sounds of South Side fill the morning air and Mickey inhales deeply, appreciating the familiarity of them. Sirens, screeching tires, the deep rumble of machinery in the distance.

He settles into the creaky old lounger that Ian dragged home from Christ knows where and tips his head back, drawing heavily on his smoke. The material is cold even through his dressing gown but he doesn’t mind that. It’s peaceful out here and if he freezes his balls off it doesn’t really matter. He won’t be using them for a little while anyway with Ian like this.

He feels like he has forgotten something but shrugs it off. Ian had his pills, he’s got food, he’s got water … Mickey snorts and shakes his head. Sometimes caring for Ian in these phases feels like having a sick old cat: Feed it, medicate it, clean up its … SHIT!

Mickey hastily stubs the cigarette out and hurries into the house. He shrugs out of his robe and pushes their bedroom door open gently.

“Ian, hey, we gotta …”

Mickey trails off as his eyes light on the glass of water. No longer clear, it is now a dull yellow. Ian has pissed in the glass. It is full to the brim, Mickey’s gaze follows the splashes on the table, down the draw, and he knows, without looking there is going to be a big old wet patch on the floor. It’s not Ian’s fault. He knows it isn’t, but his eyebrows are still up to his hairline and his lips compress into a tight line.

Mickey rakes a hand over his face and waits in the doorway until he can be sure that his temper is under control.

“Okay. Fuck. Alright …”

Mickey nods to himself and stalks into the bathroom grabbing a bucket, cloth and bottle of disinfectant all the while worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

As he enters the bedroom, he composes his face to neutrality. Ian is looking out from the cocoon of his blanket with flat, red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s on the carpet.”

Ian whispers miserably. Mickey shrugs and glances down dismissively as if the carpet brought it on its fucking self by being in Ian’s way.

“It doesn’t matter. Carpets shit anyway.”

Mickey gingerly tips the glass into his bucket; not bothering to try to pick it up, it is too full. He drops the cloth to the carpet and stamps onto it a few times, spraying the bedside table with disinfectant at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head hopelessly and Mickey gives him a lopsided little smile

“Meh. We’ve all been there. I once pissed in Mandy’s cereal bowl ‘cause I didn’t wanna pause a video game. Don’t worry about it.”

A tear slides down Ian’s nose but he manages to lift one trembling corner of his mouth at the anecdote as Mickey pats his cheek very softly, stroking the tip of Ian’s short sideburns with his finger. Mickey hates seeing him like this, somehow when Ian is in the grip of a deep depression it is easier, the rules and limitations become more defined. This is a weird middle ground, the pills are trying to work but they are just enough out of sync to keep Ian submerged below the waterline of his illness.

“Hey. You listening to me? It’s okay.”

“You must hate me.”

“Not in this life, Gallagher.”

The kiss Mickey places against Ian’s lips is a full stop rather than a question mark and Ian reaches up to trace the curve of Mickey’s cheekbone gratefully. There is a flash of utter clarity amongst the clouding of his vision and Ian sighs gently. He doesn’t have the energy to reassure Mickey that he is still there, he just has to trust that he already knows.

*

Fiona arrives just as Mickey is finishing the clean-up and wiping Ian’s hands with a couple of the little wipes they keep for Yev.

“Hey Sweetface.”

She murmurs and spends a few minutes speaking in a soft, sweet voice to Ian and catching him up on family gossip. He doesn’t show any signs of interest but he is acknowledging the information and that is something. Mickey loiters on the edge of the bed, his fingers lightly resting on Ian’s foot. He is glad that Fiona is telling him normal shit, sometimes she can get a bit maudlin and it puts him on edge, plus he doesn’t want her making Ian feel worse. Once he is content that Ian is in safe hands, Mickey excuses himself to make coffee and when Fiona comes out of the bedroom, they sit at the table to drink it.

“What can I do to help, Mickey?”

Mickey taps the rim of his mug and sighs

“Not a whole lot for this but I was wonderin’ if you could watch him for a few hours on Thursday? If he’s not feelin’ better, you know?”

Fiona nods and sips her drink, it’s stronger than she’s used to but looking at the lines beside Mickey’s eyes, he desperately needs it strong today.

“What time?”

“Late afternoon? I gotta job to do and it’s kinda time sensitive. I’d tell the guy I can’t do it but I took the cash up front so now it feels shitty to bail on him.”

“You got a job?”

Fiona looks so happy that Mickey feels almost sorry to burst her nosy bubble

“Ah … not like … uh … it’s just a beat down. Some guy is havin’ trouble gettin’ his daughter’s ex to fuck off and he asked me if I could help.”

Mickey can feel the blush that creeps into his cheeks and scowls defensively, although to be fair Fiona hasn’t actually said anything but it still feels a little awkward admitting how he pays the bills.

“We need the money.”

“Sure, of course.”

Fiona’s smile is a little more stretched but credit to her, she’s trying to look impartial and Mickey cocks his eyebrow at her, letting a small grin lift his own lips.

“It’s a full service in this house. I beat ‘em up and Ian gets the call to go fix ‘em up.”

Fiona gives a surprised snort and her smile relaxes into a much more genuine grin.

“Fuckin’ Milkovichs.”

“Fuckin’ Gallaghers.”

Mickey counters as they touch coffee cups lightly and Fiona hands Mickey a cigarette. It isn’t exactly a friendship, but it’s close. Fiona respects that Mickey stands by Ian during his periods of illness and Mickey respects that Fiona shows up when he asks her. He suspects that the old superiority complex is still there deep down, but she treats him evenly and the whole family is great with Yevgeny, so fuck it. Sometimes you gotta accept the wins where you find them.

“Are you guys gonna be OK?”

“We’ll be fine. Tomorrow or Thursday, he’ll pick up and we’ll get to the clinic. Just a balance issue with the meds.”

Mickey’s tone doesn’t leave room for any disagreement so Fiona just nods and glances around the sparsely decorated little house. She likes how easy it is to pick out who chose what. The bright coloured cereal bowls, army paraphernalia and colourful movie posters are Ian to the life, whilst the solid, dark wood coffee table and Jack Daniels posters are very obviously Mickey. She glances at the no-nonsense black cup in her hands: Mickey.

“What happened to the wall?”

Fiona frowns at the gaping hole in the wall beside the TV and Mickey shrugs

“Milkovich temper tantrum.”

He hedges and to his joint relief and horror, Fiona gives him a sympathetic look and sighs

“Yev did that? Jesus. Trust me, the tantrums they have at five are nothing compared to the meltdowns of a pissed off eight year old. Carl once cracked a car wind-shield.”

Mickey makes a non-committal noise and buries his nose in his mug.

*

The next few of days pass in a really fucking monotonous blur for Mickey. Ian is either asleep, crying or angry. It is a low dip but it’s not the sort where he can’t function at all.

He can still demand that Mickey go out and get him some coke to help his mood, then throw a plate of food across the room when he is refused.

He can still recognise that he’s being difficult and sob his guilt and remorse into Mickey’s chest before pushing him away again.

Mickey just replaces the thrown food, refuses to get anything stronger than a joint, and strokes him back to sleep when he cries. What else can he do?

It is part of the illness, part of his body and mind trying to readjust and find a way through. Mickey knows all this, Ian’s doctor has explained it and Mickey has seen it several times. It can be hurtful, sure, but Mickey has taken a lot worse from people he doesn’t like half as much as Ian, so he figures he can handle it when it occurs.

On the fourth morning, Mickey lays down beside Ian after giving him his pills and kisses from his elbow to shoulder, resting his chin on him after the final kiss.

“I love you.”

He murmurs, sweeping a length of slightly greasy hair back behind Ian’s ear. Mickey kisses the muscular shoulder again and feels his body begin to stir. He shifts his hips back, not wanting Ian to feel the bulge in his pants. It isn’t anything Mickey can control, being near Ian is enough to get him going, no matter the circumstances, but Ian doesn’t need that kind of attention right now.

They watch a couple of shows and Mickey reads while Ian sleeps. It isn’t difficult exactly but it is boring as Hell.

When Fiona comes to relieve him of Ian watch for a couple of hours, Mickey is actually a little excited to get out of the house and work out some of his tensions and frustrations on some little punk who needs to learn when to back off.

He drives over to his clients place and parks a block over in case it goes to shit and the cops show up. This part of town is worse even than where he and Ian grew up and a few suspicious looking dudes glance appraisingly in his direction before clearly thinking better of it and going back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

One guy follows Mickey a couple hundred yards and Mickey toys with the idea of using him for practice, it’s been a while since he had a proper fight but it all seems a bit too much like hard work and although he’s glad to be out, he is worrying about Ian and his head isn’t really in the game.

The guy begins to move in on Mickey and with an impatient grunt, Mickey pulls his butterfly knife out of his jacket pocket and begins to flick it to and fro, flashing the blade with a familiar deadly grace, the metal making little ‘snicking’ sounds as it flits between his fingers.

The guy disappears down a side street and Mickey knocks on his clients door without further incident.

“Oh shit! Mickey, hey!”

“Hey Joe. You ready?”

“Oh man, listen, Ariel got back with the little prick last week, I meant to call you …”

Mickey raises his eyebrows in irritation

“I already spent that money, Joe.”

Joe, a retired boxer and occasional bouncer flinches back at the frustrated look on the younger man’s face. He hasn’t seen the youngest Milkovich boy for a while but he seems pretty fired up and Joe knows from experience that underestimating his temper is a fool’s errand, it’s why he hired him in the first place.

“Keep it, she’ll break up with him soon and I’ll call you. OK?”

Mickey is bitterly disappointed but nods curtly.

“Alright man. Take it easy.”

“You too, Mickey.”

Mickey pauses to light a cigarette on the doorstep and hears a bolt slid discreetly into place. That cheers him up a little, he likes it when big guys feel a bit uncertain of him and Joe is a really big guy. Mickey supposes its professional pride but it is nice to know that your work is so respected that people want to make sure you don’t turn it around on them.

He considers chasing down one of the smack-head assholes who wanted to go with him earlier but decides against it. It would be just his luck to get arrested and Fiona might be okay with Ian for a few hours but Mickey doesn’t trust her (or anyone else for that matter) to see Ian through the rest of this shitty thing if he ends up doing a couple weeks inside. He’s never been away from Ian before during a depressive episode and fuck knows what would happen if Mickey got sent down right when Ian needed him most. Nothing good, that is for sure. Mickey flares his nostrils, chucks the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and heads toward his home.

*

“How is he?”

He asks as soon as he gets in and Fiona grimaces

“Mean. You know how it can go. I tried to feed him but he wouldn’t eat. He’s watching YouTube videos in bed.”

Looking up at Mickey she does a double take and scowls

“Jesus. You look deranged. What happened?”

“Nothin’ job got cancelled.”

He answers tersely and then gestures to his bedroom.

“The videos are good, right? He’s engaging with the world around him and all that. It’s a good thing.”

Mickey repeats, frowning at Fiona.

“Yeah of course but, Mickey, he’s being kind of a prick and you look strung out … you want me to stick around?”

“Why? In case I flip out and beat the shit out of him?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

Fiona is just tall enough to tower over him slightly and unlike Joe, she has no fucking fear. Mickey pushes a hand through his hair and shrugs against the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m not gonna do that. Thanks for hanging out and all but I got it.”

He won’t outright tell Ian’s family to leave unless he has to but it’s a close call and Fiona seems to understand this as she begins to gather her coat and scarf without comment.

“How much longer can you do this, Mickey?”

“Long as it takes.”

“He might need …”

“Whatever it is he needs, I can give him. This is his home.”

Fiona gives Mickey a sympathetic look and he shifts his eyes, not wanting to meet her concerned gaze. She’s never tried to force him to take Ian to hospital, but she has suggested it before and Mickey desperately hopes she’ll leave it alone now. He doesn’t have the patience today. Fiona clearly thinks this too as she shrugs and says

“If you need me, just call.”

“Yeah thanks.”

Mickey nods and waits with his arms folded whilst she says goodbye to Ian. He expects her to just leave but she pauses beside him and gives his cheek a tiny kiss too.

“See you Mickey.”

“Uh… yeah, you too.”

His words don’t make sense but then neither does the kiss so Mickey doesn’t worry about it too much.

*

Time passes. Ian’s mood doesn’t improve and neither does Mickey’s. 

It has been eight days since Ian came home in a foul mood and went to bed.

Eight days and the hole is still in the wall, the controller hasn’t been replaced, the laundry isn’t piling up because neither of them are changing their damn clothes but the dishes are high in the sink and Mickey forgot to do Yev’s assignment with him so Svet has pitched a fit over text. Things are falling apart gradually and all Mickey wants is for Ian to eat something and have a wash.

He looks down at the cracked plate and the squashed and scattered sandwich remains on the carpet. Ian had asked for the sandwich. Mickey had made the sandwich. Ian had thrown the fucker into a wall.

“Guess you didn’t fancy it, huh?”

No response. Ian doesn’t even look up from his phone.

“You want me to make you another one?”

Nothing.

“How about some chips? Give the vacuum cleaner a bit of textural variety?”

Ian glances up from the video he is watching but doesn’t answer. Mickey’s patience slips

“… or maybe I could just shove the whole fuckin’ meal deal up your ass?”

“Fuck off.”

Ian glances up from his phone and glares at his boyfriend. Mickey tongues at his upper lip, clearly aggravated. The room stinks, Ian stinks. It is the cloying smell of an unwashed body and Mickey is sick of it.

“Fine. Don’t eat but you gotta wash.”

Mickey informs him, stripping down to his own boxers ready to get Ian to the shower, his legs will be wobbly after so long in bed.

“No.”

“Ian …”

“No.”

“It’ll just take a minute …”

“You fucking deaf? I SAID NO!”

Ian roars, sliding down the mattress, dragging the blanket back over his head. Mickey’s own temper flares as he presses his lips together tightly, raises his eyebrows and yanks the blanket away again with a sharp tug.

“I’ve had enough of this shit! Get the fuck up! You are on your fuckin’ phone watchin’ videos. You ain’t so far gone you can’t get up.”

He half crawls onto the mattress, intending to haul Ian off bodily and put him in the fuckin’ shower, even if he has to hold the fucker under himself.

“Go away, Mickey!”

The back of Ian’s hand catches Mickey just under his eye and he jerks back, startled.

“Ow! Fuck, Ian!”

Ian curls inward, turning his face into the pillow.

Mickey gets off the bed and closes the door behind him as he leaves. He isn’t built for this shit. When Yev had tantrums as a toddler he pretty much either ignored them or handed the kid over to Ian to deal with.

Ian is the one who deals with peoples shit. He’s the one who smooths stuff over and stays calm. Mickey doesn’t.

He tugs on some sweat pants and a thick sweater of Ian’s still over the back of the couch.

His cheek is stinging and Mickey’s hands are trembling from the shock of the whole damn thing. He paces around the house uncertain of whether or not to go back in. He decides against it. 

He drinks a beer and smokes three cigarettes outside on the porch, slumped down in the lounger. He shouldn’t have yelled, shouldn’t have snatched Ian’s cover away, shouldn’t have tried to force him. So many things he shouldn’t fucking do and he does most of them anyway. 

His phone vibrates in his pants pocket and Mickey glances down at it expecting it to be Svetlana about the school project again.

Ian: I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back.

Mickey doesn’t want to go back into that room. He slips his phone back into his pocket and pretends he hasn’t seen the message. Just ten more minutes, that’s all he needs. Ten minutes to himself and then he’ll go and lie with Ian or anything else his boyfriend wants of him.

Five minutes pass and Mickey is just about to light his last smoke when the back door squeaks and Mickey looks round, one eyebrow arched in surprise. Ian is stood in boxers and vest, shivering in the cold, looking down at him in absolute misery.

“Fuck, man! Get inside!”

Mickey stumbles to his feet, smoke curling out of his nostrils as he clamps the cigarette between his lips and barrels Ian back into the house.

“I’m so sorry, Mickey.”

Ian is trembling from head to toe and Mickey grabs a blanket from the couch, throwing it around Ian’s shoulders like a cape, rubbing his arms brusquely.

“It’s okay.”

“Your eye’s all puffy … Jesus.”

Ian’s lip joins the rest of his body, quaking miserably and Mickey makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m fuckin’ tired, both my eyes are puffy.”

Ian shakes his head and shakes off Mickey’s hands, reaching out and pulling his boyfriend roughly into his chest, holding him close.

“I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay…”

“Stop saying that! I’m sick, I’m not a little kid. Stop telling me it’s okay!”

Ian orders, and he sounds so much like his usual-self Mickey doesn’t even want to argue back. He likes authoritative Ian, he likes it when Ian takes charge of situations so that Mickey doesn’t have to. One of the hardest parts about the depressive episodes for Mickey is the responsibility of it all. What Ian eats, drinks, when he takes his meds, it is all down to Mickey and he hates it. He wants Ian to be in charge of his own life.

“Fine. It’s not okay. You’re being really fuckin’ hard to handle and I sort of want to kick your ass.”

“I know.”

Ian nods his chin against the top of Mickey’s head.

“I’m glad you’re up.”

Mickey says quietly and Ian nods

“I thought you might have left me.”

“Not likely.”

Mickey smiles against Ian’s chest and then pulls back looking up at him.

“You and me are for life, Firecrotch. We’re family.”

Mickey gives Ian a serious look as he says this and the younger man nods.

“Okay.”

Ian’s eyelids start to droop again. The adrenaline that got him this far is wearing off and his legs are shaking alarmingly. Mickey takes some of his weight and begins to guide him toward the bedroom but hesitates.

“Bathroom first.”

“But …”

“Two minutes.”

He says firmly. Ian’s eyes drift down to him and it is as though Ian sees, really sees, Mickey for the first time in days. The tiredness, the strain, the smell of them both. 

“Oh shit, Mick …”

“What? You think I look like shit? Man, I’m a fuckin’ runway model compared to you.”

Mickey smooths Ian’s greasy hair and kisses his hairy cheek. They’re both sporting the beginnings of beards and the soft rasp of stubble is so calming that Ian actually turns his cheek, pressing it closer to Mickey. The effort is exhausting but the smile it raises on his boyfriends face is worth it.

“You actually like this, huh?”

Mickey asks softly and Ian nods.

“Sexier on you now than when we were kids.”

“Alright. Well, we don’t have to shave mine but we gotta shave yours. Makes you look like a damn schnauzer. I’m gonna start the shower and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

Ian feels a tear slide over his nose, and Mickey’s breath hitches as he notices it, but when he speaks, his voice is firm.

“I need you to help me, Ian. I can’t carry you.”

The amount of weight Ian has lost in the last week, this is probably not true but it has the desired effect and Ian straightens his spine determinedly.

“OK.”

“Good.”

Ian hears the water running in the bathroom, he hears Mickey’s tuneless humming, and he hears his heart pounding in his temples and knows that it beats for the man who is so desperately trying to take care of him. Ian grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and with great effort, he tugs his shirt over his head and peels out of his boxers.

It is like moving through a swamp, like his limbs have turned into thick rubber noodles that refuse to cooperate with his minds commands but he takes the few steps he needs to reach the bathroom door and pushes it open.

Mickey is leaning over the bath, his sweater sleeves pushed up, testing the temperature of the water raining down. His ass is jutting out in a sweet, round bubble against the soft fabric of the sweats. Ian feels nothing at all and the realisation stops him cold.

Then Mickey turns and he is smiling that wide, generous smile that is only for Ian, all white teeth and creased eyes, his nose scrunching just the tiniest bit and Ian manages another step forward.

*

Two weeks later

*

Mickey wakes to the smell of coffee and waffles. He blinks, frowns, squints against the small stream of sunlight that has found a chink in the curtains and is falling stubbornly over Mickey’s face. It takes him a few seconds to process the smells in conjunction with a small, warm weight covering his back.

He half pushes himself upright but an impatient noise stills his movements as a little hand takes a fistful of his t-shirt.

‘Yev’ Mickey thinks with a small huff. He half remembers the kid coming in during the night and squeezing in between him and Ian. He considers it a bad habit and something of a liberty but Ian doesn’t seem to mind at all so Mickey tend to just stake his claim on as much mattress as possible and ignores it.

Now, Mickey rolls over slowly until the weight dislodges with another grunt and a tiny bump on Ian’s side of the bed.

“Yeah, that’s what you get.”

Mickey mumbles as he sits on the edge of the bed and fondly smooths the frantic sweep of Yevgeny’s hair down, tucking the blanket around his sturdy little shoulders.

“Good Papa.”

Yev murmurs up at him approvingly, already slipping back toward sleep. Mickey smiles to himself and yawns widely.

Padding out of the bedroom he makes his way downstairs rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Ian is moving slowly around the kitchen, he looks tired but content. Mickey’s eyes flick toward the pill box and he notices the lid is flipped up which means Ian has remembered to take them. He’s been doing really well since the meds changed but Mickey always checks.

“Good morning.”

“Oh! Oh shit! I wanted to surprise you!”

Ian pauses mid waffle flip, a tiny frown creasing his brow

“You did.”

Mickey assures him, scratching at his beard. It’s come in a lot fuller than the last time he tried to grow one at seventeen and it’s actually pretty impressive now. Ian has tried to convince him to go for the full ‘Hipster’ look but Mickey has to draw a line somewhere and apparently, it gets drawn at a top-knot.

“How you feeling?”

“Shitty but I made breakfast and don’t feel like I need to sleep again already so I’m doing great, right?”

Ian lets his expression soften into a self-effacing smile and pours Mickey a cup of coffee.

“Damn right, you are.”

Mickey sips his drink and snakes a hand around Ian’s waist, palming him lightly.

“Not while the waffles are cooking.”

Ian’s scolds but his smile broadens when Mickey clucks his tongue in faux impatience.

“Fine but they better be damn good waffles.”

“Oh you know it. Sit your ass down and I’ll bring you some over.”

“Make sure I get the biggest one. You always give it to Yev.”

“Are you pouting?”

Ian laughs as Mickey settles into his usual spot at the head of the table and lights a cigarette

“Not yet.”

Mickey says evenly, flashing Ian a smile around the smoke. Ian serves them up, making sure to give Mickey the largest one and putting Yev’s share in the oven to keep warm. They eat in an easy silence, Ian’s foot nudging gently against his boyfriends.

“Hey, listen, I gotta patch up that hole in the wall today and I know we’re gonna take Yev home, but once we’ve done that … you wanna head down to town hall?”

“What for?”

Ian looks up from his plate and gives Mickey a sweet, wonky smile. Mickey scratches the side of his nose a little embarrassed and shrugs

“I figure now you’re out of bed, we’ll get married.”

Ian chokes on his coffee and Mickey pounds his back with a little bit of unnecessary force

“Jesus. I didn’t realise the thought of marrying me would make you wanna kill yourself by fuckin’ beverage inhalation.”

“No it’s … well, fuck! I wasn’t expecting it that’s all.”

Ian truly wasn’t. If anything he was bracing himself for a talk about maybe not being quite right for each other or something. He knows it’s stupid, that Mickey loves him and is fiercely loyal but when Ian has come out the other side of an episode, manic or depressive, he always wonders at the back of his mind if this will be the one to finally push his boyfriend away.

“Look it’s not a roses and champagne proposal it’s just … Fiona is your next of kin and fuck knows who mine is. I wanna know that if something happens it’s you and me who make the big decisions.”

Ian’s smile wavers but holds

“Did she try and get me into hospital?”

“No, but I wanna know that no one can. I make that call for you. You make it for me. Seems right.”

Mickey shrugs and looks shiftily between his coffee cup and the bright green eyes of his partner.

“So? Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Jesus Christ, Ian. Marry me! Will you marry me?”

Mickey’s eyebrows are half-way to irritated and Ian grins at him

“I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Asshole.”

Mickey suppresses his own grin, nudging his tongue into the corner of his mouth impatiently when Ian continues to stare at him.

“Ian, I swear if you don’t give me a fuckin’ answer, like, now…”

“Yes, Mick. I’ll marry you.”

“Today?”

Mickey prompts, blue eyes shining with happiness that he cannot quantify and doesn’t try to.

“Yes, today.”

Ian laughs, nodding and then seems to think of something else and shakes his head a little.

“Are you sure though? You really want …”

“I just asked you, didn’t I?”

Mickey says sternly but tempers his tone with a soft kiss on Ian’s cheek.

“Yeah but …”

“It’s you and me, Gallagher. For life.”

“I’m so fucking lucky to have you.”

Mickey flushes slightly at the unexpected praise and Ian grips the back of his head, drawing him close and kissing the tip of his nose, lips twitching with a hidden smile

“You hear me? I am lucky to have you. You are a kind, generous, good person Mickey.”

Ian holds Mickey’s gaze until he is sure the words have sunk in and then pulls him into a kiss, knowing Mickey is more comfortable with expressing himself physically than verbally and damn, does Mickey express himself well.

Ian’s mouth is warm and welcoming and the sweet tang of syrup mingles with the taste of coffee and cigarettes. Mickey sighs into him as Ian drops his fingers questioningly into Mickey’s lap and finds the answer all too apparent.

The words “I love you” float up between them and it is not clear which voice speaks them, but it doesn’t matter. They are simply and irrevocably true.


End file.
